Walking

I wake to the calls of owls, to the howls of coyotes, and know there is still time to sleep. I wake to a chorus of bird song and know it’s time to wake. I pack everything I have and carry it on my back. I walk. A red squirrel comes bounding down the boards of a bog bridge, sees me and scampers up a tree. A robin hops down the trail in front of me, leading me away from her nest. A frog jumps aside and tries to blend in with the roots and fallen leaves. A new bird puffs out its neck feathers and struts beneath the bushes. I walk. I cross roads of pavement, roads of gravel, roads of dirt, and roads that used to be. I step carefully from stone to stone amid rushing water. A rabbit runs and hooks into the undergrowth, making me think of my friend. A woodpecker beats a drumroll on a hollow tree, stares at me a moment, then plunges his red head back into the hole he’s made. Tiny orange lizards stop transfixed as my shadow passes over them. I walk. I sweat. I ache. I rest atop a boulder on the edge of a pond, watching the wind trace patterns on the water and disturb the reflections of the green mountains. I walk. I climb. Up staircases of stone, up slabs of exposed bedrock, up tracks of mud, up ladders of roots. I come back down the other side. Thunder rumbles in the distance. The wind blows cold. The leaves rustle and flip. Things go silent. I wait out the storm in a shelter. It rains. The rain passes, but a second rain falls from the canopy awhile. I walk. Another mountain, then I can rest. Take care of food and shelter for another night. Tomorrow I walk again. On a rambling line that’s never straight or flat for long. Northward.

508.7 to go.